


Taut

by Aurënfaie (Aurenfaie)



Series: Travail [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consent Issues, Enthusiastic Consent, Everyone really just needs to bathe, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Past Rape, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:23:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4958692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurenfaie/pseuds/Aur%C3%ABnfaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In difficult times, love and intimacy can go far. Wounds start to heal, and maybe things will be alright.</p><p>Or: Hawke is horny and useless. Fenris is a grump and trying not to be (and failing). Anders is a mess of a human being, but he’s pretty sure sex fixes everything.</p><p>See notes for Russian translation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taut

**Author's Note:**

> This is only reaching you because a lovely friend cheered me on. Shout out to the amazing and delightful [unwizard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unwizard)! I think otherwise I would have given up due to embarrassment or frustration. She went through and read it and listened to all of my wailing, and knew me well enough to make sure I didn't get lazy. It's literally over 5000 words of pure smut, and anyone willing to edit that is officially a patron saint of porn. 
> 
> This is the missing sex scene from Tension, which I cut out because that's not what the story was about. For those of who you didn't read Tension, it is suggested but not required reading. There are a few references to think that happened in it, so if you enjoyed this, consider going back and reading Tension?
> 
> [Now available in Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3733494)[!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3709416) Thank you very much to [Кузя-кот](https://ficbook.net/authors/815115) for translating this!

Their room tonight is old. The building itself is made of wood slowly rotting as the century passes, but some of the furnishings are even older. The bed is simple enough, wide and low, stained dark with a few chips in it. The sheets are old and worn, no longer whatever vivid color they may have been when purchased, but lack bedbugs and lice, and are thin enough for this warm climate. There’s even a painting on the wall, even if it’s certainly not at the hand of any experienced artist. The bold strokes and warm colors of fruit are familiar to this region, not unlike the lamps hanging over the head of the bed. They are a motley collection, likely gathered up from various lost caravans from back when Tevinter controlled this region. Each is unique, none from the same collection. Still, hung together from the ceiling and filled with tiny tea candles and flower petals, they create the feel of luxury even in such a shabby place. Despite the many candles in the collection of lamps overhead, the setting sun out the glassless window better lights the room.

At the moment, Anders, Hawke, and Fenris are piled in the bed in a clumsy heap. Anders is half sprawled over Hawke, face pressed into the man’s broad shoulder. Hawke takes up much of the bed, arms and legs spread with his fingers dragging aimlessly through Fenris’ hair. The elf half hangs off the bed, his feet still planted on the floor with his head resting on Hawke’s chest. It’s tempting to fall asleep like this and forgo food and bathing for the night, but then they’d lose this rare chance to a little intimacy under a roof.

With a squeeze to Anders’ side and a shift of his shoulders, Hawke pushes himself up. Fenris’ head slips down into the man’s lap and a roguish grin above encourages him to right himself. He locks eyes with Anders on the other side of the bed. For as much as they disagree through heated arguments, the mage and elf seem to understand one another well enough nonverbally. Whenever they close their mouths for more than a few seconds, Hawke sees them watching one another. At first he’d thought it was just another type of conflict. Stare downs are preferable to shouting matches, after all. Things have changed though, since the other day on the cliff. Now Anders avoids Fenris’ eyes as much as he can while they travel, though he goes to no such lengths with Hawke. Seeing them meet eyes again is a little unnerving. Whatever goes unspoken between them, Hawke can’t understand it from looks alone.

“What if,” Hawke starts, cutting off his own thoughts, “We make use of the bed while we’ve got one?”

Anders seems to know what Hawke has in mind, if the sudden warmth in his expression is anything to go by, but Fenris only fixes his gaze on him and blinks. “I don’t know when we’ll find a bed again, so…” He wets his lips, drawing Fenris’ attention to them. Neither he nor Anders expects an immediate response, as he always needs a moment to determine whether he wants to participate. He doesn’t always join them. In fact, most of the time it’s just Hawke and Anders. From time to time, one might lure Fenris into bed and enjoy a private evening with him, and even then it is uncommon to get to the point of what Hawke so charmingly calls “consummating the marriage.” Consent is a difficult subject for the elf, and requires active consideration. Hawke is certain sometimes he says “no” just to prove that he can. All the same, no one touches him until he touches them first. That keeps the game simple.

Until Fenris decides what he wants, the others leave him in peace and make proper use of the bed.

Instead of invading the elf’s space, Hawke rolls himself on top of Anders and frames the his head with his arms. Anders laughs against him. His tongue traces the seam of Hawke’s lips, gently encouraging them to part. Their noses bump when Hawke relents, and his head shifts to an angle so he can tease in return. Anders has a talented tongue, always dragging him in and working him over, teaching him how a touch of teeth can drive him crazy. Each hot breath is an exchanged sigh.

Anders makes quiet contented noises, only just loud enough to purr against Hawke’s skin. The room is silent outside the sound of their mouths meeting, and it’s easy to forget that Fenris is there at all.

When Hawke shifts, unsure if he’s trying to adjust himself in his trousers or rub against something, Anders laughs again and latches onto the man’s lower lip. He tugs on the offered flesh and sucks it until it’s swollen and dark. Hawke licks over the swell of his lip and grins down at the mage.

“There’s something else you could be sucking instead, you know,” he chuckles.

Anders’ fingers curl into thick dark hair and tug until he commands Hawke’s full attention. The chapped edges of their lips catch, and that might be distracting if Hawke wasn’t so glad to have the familiar body under him. Unfortunately, it seems Anders has limits to the amount of filth he’s willing to endure.

“Hawke. I love you, but that’s pushing it a little.” They both stink of sweat and horses and dirt, and even if Anders’ mouth tastes sour from a day’s travel, Hawke doesn’t mind. He’s had a darkspawn close enough to smell. Another person’s body has nothing on that. Still, going for days, almost weeks now without bathing has made them both a bit ripe. Sitting on the back of a horse for most of their travels…Well, Hawke is starting to see why Anders would want to keep his mouth as far away from that as possible. As long as the rest is fair game, he supposes he’ll survive.

“But this is good, right?” he asks, letting his lips trail along Anders’ stubbled jaw. He tastes salt and dust, but it isn’t bad. It’s still Anders underneath it.

The mage looks a little devious beneath him. He deftly removes the thick belt tight around Hawke’s mid section. Knobby fingers pry at Hawke’s jerkin and push it up his torso. “It could be better. Maybe less clothing?” His hands are cool against Hawke’s heated skin. They skim feather light up his sides, then press harder as they work down his back. They soothe the aching muscles there drawn tight from days on horseback. Always a healer’s touch, Hawke thinks to himself with a smile. Those gentle hands slip downward to toy with the hem of Hawke’s trousers. At first they tease, tugging until the trousers until they ride low on his hips. Even if they aren’t as tight as Fenris’ leggings, they won’t slide further without undoing the laces at the front. Hawke props himself up on one arm, drawing his hips away from Anders’, so he can untie the drawstring with clumsy rough movements. Loosened, the trousers rest low enough to reveal curls of black hair leading the eye lower and lower until they disappear beneath Hawke’s underclothes.

“Shirt,” Anders instructs from the bed, drawing his index finger through the air. His arm is propped under his head, and he looks every bit a lazy lordling with that smug smile pulling at his lips. Hawke sits back on his heels and mumbles something about bossy mages, but is happy to oblige. The buttons of his jerkin come open after a few over eager attempts. It’s flung off the side of the bed and smacks into the wall, and is immediately forgotten.

In the time it takes Hawke to remove his shirt, Anders sits up and starts on his own, only to be interrupted by impatient tattooed hands. While his companions got started, Fenris seems to have removed his chest plate and gauntlets, freeing him of most of his prickly edges. His personality remains however, and his treatment of the mage is gruff. Anders’ tunic is pulled up over his back where it then catches on his head and shoulders. Fenris doesn’t wait for the mage to sort it out and continues to pull until Anders attempts to shove him away with his flailing limbs. Blinded by fabric, the mage twists his torso this way and that, trying work his bony elbows out of his sleeves. When it’s finally over his head, his hair is a tow colored bird’s nest. Anders scowls and swats him with the shirt, then lets it fall.

For a moment, Hawke thinks they’re about to start up again. The pair of them haven’t gotten into a fist fight since Kirkwall, but it seems inevitable for them to return to old habits.

Instead, Hawke is surprised to watch Fenris gentle. The elf pulls one end of the leather strap keeping Anders’ mess of a ponytail in place and lets the hair fall. It’s a mess at first, but Fenris combs his fingers through like it is spun gold. All the heat has vanished, leaving the elf reverent and placid. Hawke doesn’t immediately understand how this is possible, not when his lovers are always so captious with each other. Only when Fenris presses his forehead to Anders’ in a rare intimate gesture do the pieces start to sink into place. It’s an apology. The words are too big for Fenris’ mouth; he can’t even begin to make up for going after Anders the way he did just the other day. It’s an apology that says he doesn’t regret pulling him back from the ledge. Fenris lips along the bridge of the mage’s nose, then presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. The meaning is clear, even through all the anger that led them here. _I love you and I cannot lose you_.

Anders says nothing, but loops his arms around Fenris and twists his torso to drag the elf into his lap. His hands tremble, his face hides against Fernis’ shoulder. If he tears up, he does his best to hide it by working on the elf’s jerkin. It comes slowly, with Fenris’ hands steadying him when the clasps prove too clever for him.

Hawke watches in silence for a moment. The air around them is uncertain and tense. When leather drops away and they share a soft kiss, he relaxes. No more fighting tonight. He tumbles off the side of the bed and tugs at his trousers and unders. They stick at his muscled thighs and he has to wiggle his hips to get them down further. From the bed, Anders starts to laugh. It’s a ridiculous picture, Hawke with his trousers down to his knees, half hard cock swinging as he tries to remove his pants. Even Fenris snorts at the image. Neither of them offer to help, so Hawke is stuck making a fool of himself until he is eventually freed.

Now that the somber mood has dissipated, Hawke thinks it’s time to get a move on. They still need to bathe and eat before the night is done, after all.

He climbs back into the bed and awkwardly angles his legs so his hips can press against Fenris’ rear. His knees knock against Anders’ and they shuffle around until they’re comfortable. He scoops Fenris into his lap so Anders can fold his legs. Fenris digs his nails into Hawke’s arm and settles his weight against the man’s groin. Dark leggings keep their skin from touching, but Hawke sees this as the perfect opportunity to catch Fenris up on their activities. One arm tight the elf’s midsection, he free hand trails across his hip and down to a clothed length. It would seem that just watching is enough to earn his interest.

The heel of Hawke’s palm presses at the top while his fingers work lower, cupping the elf’s balls through the fabric. Fenris hisses and jerks. His legs spread wider and he tries to roll his hips into the touch, but lacks the leverage to get far.

Anders takes mercy on the aggrieved elf and kneels between his legs. He leans forward towering over Fenris. A freckled pale arm curls the back of Fenris’ neck and pulls him close. Lips brush against lips. Fenris starts a growl, unsatisfied by foreplay, when Hawke’s fingers tighten on him though his leggings. His voice pitches higher into a whine. If he had his way, Fenris would likely be silent through every sexual encounter. However, his lovers have made it something of a game to drag noises unwilling from his through. The needier and more embarrassing, the better.

While Hawke pries at Fenris’ trousers with thick, callused fingers, Anders occupies his mouth the same tricks he’d been teaching Hawke earlier. Their rough edges are even clearer like this. Every tender kiss is matched with a rough stroke across exposed skin, every nip with kind fingers smoothing through unwashed hair. Fenris’ blunted nails scratch lightly at the pale chest before him. He seems fascinated by the faint patch of golden hair on the Anders’ chest. It has nothing on the fur that covers much of Hawke’s body—which he is very fond of, not that anyone asked—but Fenris likes to drag his fingers through it. His own body is nearly smooth, with only traces of hair anywhere but his head. This makes him appreciate and revere something others might ignore. Anders is a little embarrassed by it though, and grabs Fenris’ hand under the pretense of lacing their fingers together. Then he smiles and guides their hands down the V of his hips. Whatever sweet moment they’d been having is now over in favor of practicality.

 _Apology accepted_ , Hawke thinks as he lips along the long line of Fenris’ ear. When he pulls away, he can see faint marks around the cartilage. Earring holes he hasn’t noticed before, just like the one on Anders’ right earlobe. His tongue flattens along the shell of Fenris’ ear, earning strangled noises and pleasant writhing in his lap. Maybe the next town they stop in will have somewhere to buy jewelry. Hawke would like to tug on earrings with his teeth, and he thinks his companions might like it too. He imagines what that would be like, what reaction he’d get, as he sucks on the tip of the elf’s ear. If this reaction is anything go to by, jewelry is worth the cost.

All the wiggling has him rocking his hips and looking for the slick. He’s not sure where it was, but Anders helps it find its way into his hand. Fenris seems far more open to receiving tonight, and neither of them are willing to risk scaring him off by making a big stir of it. Navigating his moods, particularly in bed, requires subtlety and careful execution. That the elf is willing to sit on anyone’s lap dictates the mood of the evening. He wouldn’t let himself be manhandled onto anyone if he wasn’t interested. Hawke found this out the hard way not long ago when Fenris almost gave him a black eye after being made to straddle him.

“Fenris,” Hawke breathes against that sharp ear. Hand spread on the elf’s belly, he shifts his hips against Fenris’ still covered rear. “Why don’t you take off your leggings?” Always a suggestion, never an order.

If the elf is worried about the implication of the small glass flask cased in leather clutched in Hawke’s hand this evening, he says nothing of it. Instead he makes quick work of his leggings with a practiced ease neither of his companions can match. A few awkward tumbles in bed and the both of them have learned that only Fenris can get them off with any sort of grace.

“C’mere, hot stuff,” Hawke beckons him closer. The elf looks mortified at the new nickname. Peels of laughter behind him resonate Anders’ thoughts on the matter. “What? It was worth a shot! Calling you ‘Broody’ isn’t very sexy.”

Fenris shakes his head and swings a leg over the man’s lap. “You could call me by my name,” he murmurs, nipping at Hawke’s beard.

“Fenris.” Hawke puts every effort into subduing his goofy side to make the name sound like liquid sex. When the elf blinks and blushes, he tries again. “Fenris.” This time he draws his shoulders up and looks away. Hawke grins and grips his hips. “Fenris, will you let me…?” His hands slide to a taut and muscled rear, giving it a teasing squeeze. When he receives no immediate response, he lets a dry finger slip down the crack and brush over Fenris’ hole. The elf shivers and nods. It’s a miracle Hawke doesn’t say something to ruin the moment.

Over Fenris’ shoulder, Anders’ eyes darken with lust. He wets his lips and pushes a hand down the front of his own trousers. Hawke winks at him and uncorks the bottle. Its contents spill over his fingers until he rights it and stuffs it closed.

“Shhh…” he whispers and rubs his fingers together. “I’ve got you.”

The oil is has warmed in Hawke’s grasp. When his fingers return to Fenris’ rear, they massage down his crack with long firm strokes, from tailbone to the back of his balls, then back up. The tip of Hawke’s middle finger teases at Fenris’ entrance on the way down. His muscles clench at the anticipated intrusion. Hawke plants a wet kiss on the elf’s cheek and lets his finger breach the hole to the first knuckle. Fenris jolts and inhales. Even after a few pleasurable experiences at this, old reactions die hard. Hawke lips along the hard line of the elf’s shoulder, likely leaving stubble burn in his wake.

While his finger presses deeper in tiny increments, his free hand rubs gentle circles over the tattoos bundled on Fenris’ lower back. With no magic shocking the elf’s nerves and driving pain through the while lines drawn across every inch of his body—Hawke takes a moment to glance down at the beautiful, if certainly agonizing marks along the hot length poking his belly—they’ve all found that they’re merely very sensitive. Enough care and tenderness and the tattoos shift from painful to erotic.

The telltale exhale of a long held breath is a precursor for Fenis’ slowly loosening muscles. Their vice grip on Hawke releases and finger pushes deeper and curls. Fingering Fenris is the best way to drag noises out of the stoic elf. Unbridled stimulation where he once held memories of pain and humiliation make him all the more receptive to little touches, and soon Hawke has him squirming and moaning in his lap. Bites and a string of curses follow. A tattooed arm curls around the back of Hawke’s neck and Fenris hides his face in the man’s muscled shoulder. This doesn’t stifle the noises in the slightest. In no time, he’s become a wreck of pleasure. His fingers drag through the man’s hair and pull when the touch becomes too much. When his cries go unanswered, Fenris sinks the sharp edges of his teeth into the side of Hawke’s neck. This earns him a hiss and a rough push of fingers. They stroke along Fenris’ insides, brushing over a tender spot, then pressing against it.

Anders watches from the other side of the bed. There’s something about watching the aloof elf fall apart that the both of them find beyond arousing. Hawke knows how to take care of their elf, and Anders knows how to take care of himself. While the pair of them are occupied, he kicks off his trousers, letting them join the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. The occasional low, rough moan sends a shiver up his spine. He licks his lips and pushes his hips against his hand. Hawke watches him, lips pursed against the elf’s shoulder. Their eyes meet and Hawke licks a line across Fenris’ collar bone. He knows Anders likes that. Maybe by the end of the night, he’ll have a chance at the elf.

Another finger presses in and the mage bites his lip. Hawke’s eyes seem to sparkle with mischief. His tongue runs over his lips, then over the lobe of Fenris’ ear. He murmurs something too quiet for Anders to hear, but the words are clear enough. The elf rises up onto his knees, thighs now slick from spilled oil. Hawke’s hands, massive in comparison to an elf’s sinewy body, run down the backs of Fenris’ legs. On their way back up, they turn inward and ease the elf’s legs open further.

Pleased, Hawke offers another quiet suggestion into the long pointed ear. It twitches against the man’s hot mouth. Fenris’ hand slips between them. His fingers brush through dark curls while his other hand fetches the discarded bottle. Oil spills down over where he drags up and down Hawke’s cock. It’s a horrible waste, but perhaps need will inspire Fenris to allow Anders to make use of his slick spell.

Hawke is enraptured as the elf sinks down inch by glorious inch. Muscles tighten and hips shift from side to side. Fenris’ toes curl in a mix of pleasure and pain.

“Fasta vass,” the elf groans when his knee unexpectedly slips out from under him and he drops into Hawke’s lap. The larger man cries out and sinks back onto his elbows. Fenris’ hips stutter and his thighs tremble.

For a moment, it seems he’s going to topple over. Anders loops his arms around his waist just in time, knees on either side of Hawke’s thighs, and presses his hips to Fenris’ lower back.

“It’s just me,” Anders mumbles when Fenris tenses up. The sound of a familiar voice is enough to let him drop his guard again and he starts to move. A white mess of hair spills onto the mage’s shoulder as Fenris leans back into him. Hot breaths come out like gasps; his eyes are screwed shut against the soft rocking of a body beneath his. Anders holds him up and smooths hands down his stomach, soothing his tight muscles until he can wind his hips forward and back.

Clutching at the mage’s arm, Fenris lifts himself slightly, then sinks back down, earning a satisfied moan from the man beneath him. His body forms a beautiful arch, shoulders against Anders’ chest as he starts to move. Hawke thinks maybe the elf’s “skills” extend beyond killing and fucking. The way he moves when he’s enjoying himself is like dancing. There are dancers like that in Antiva, or so Isabela says. The dancers wear next to nothing and move entirely from the hips, arms in the air and hands swirling. If Fenris wasn’t clinging to their mage like the man was air in his lungs, he’d look just the same. He feels the same, the way his body moves along with a beat only the elf can hear. His eyes refuse to open, as though sight might take away from the song. Hawke can’t complain, not when each surge and swell drags him embarrassingly quickly towards the edge.

Hawke realizes it’s not just Fenris moving, but both his lovers. Anders is pressed up behind him, arms at his waist and hand working in long slow tugs along his tattooed cock. He’s careful with the lines there, only letting the soft flesh of his palm touch them. Anything more than that and the feeling turns to pain. If they expect to repeat this, they’ve got to ensure Fenris enjoys himself. As difficult as this can be at times, it is rewarding. Fenris seems to be enjoying himself if the way he and Anders pick up their pace is any indication. Hawke wants to laugh and how unexpected their sudden cooperation is, but they’re doing something to him that makes his mind go blank. He can only offer weak thrusts of his hips and a string of compliments that would normally get him punched by an angry lyrium ghost.

Anders’ thumb works over the head of the length in his grip every time Fenris gets frustrated. That seems to be enough to keep him placated bouncing in Hawke’s lap, muscled thighs working him like the tide.

The upward movement seems to cling to Hawke, slowly losing ground until only the head is caught on the ring of Fenris’ muscles, then he’s welcomed back until he sits deep inside the elf. It takes great effort to keep his eyes open and not give into the pleasure. He’s gifted with the sight of Fenris’ mouth hanging open in silent moans and Anders running his hand up a tattooed abdomen to splay across his chest. Power ripples under tanned skin. His lip catches between his teeth as he watches. Anders decides to tease and pinches the bud of a nipple between his fingers. Fenris isn’t particularly sensitive there, not compared to his tattoos, but this is a show for Hawke and he enjoys it.

“You two will be the death of me,” he says with a husky laugh, punctuating his words with particularly sharp roll of his hips.

“Ahh—” Fenris gasps out, toes curling.

Heat builds in Hawke’s belly and below. Beyond the tight grip of Fenris’ muscles and the quiet encouragements spilling from Anders’ lips as move together, the fact that they are all together is arousing enough to cut his stamina short. Grubby nails scramble up dark thighs, grasping and groping as his hips arch upwards. Both the mage and the elf are rocked upwards and Fenris snarls in complaint. Hawke is beyond caring though. He gives no warning before he releases his load with a rough moan.

Thighs trembling, he drops back to the bed, jostling both Fenris and Anders. Even with Hawke completed, Fenris makes no move to lift himself free of him, instead letting his muscles clench and loosen around the length inside him as he tries to milk the last bit of pleasure as it softens.

Hawke watches with a lazy gaze as Anders’ thumb traces the soft ridge of tattoo lining Fenris’ length. He can’t even imagine the pain of having it done, but if Fenris’ groan is any indication, he imagines they’re enjoyable enough now. Hawke can’t tell quite what’s happening, but his mind is happy enough to fill in the blanks. The tattoos on Fenris’ lower body light up, casting blue light over his belly. They both know that Anders can’t risk making use of his bag of tricks Isabela enjoys describing in detail, but the mage seems to find a more subtle trick just as potent. No sparks, no heat, just a quick flutter of his fingers and--

Fenris howls in pleasure. Under Anders’ dedicated care, the elf is not far behind Hawke. When Fenris’ head tips back as he rides, Hawke knows he’s coming undone. Each rise and fall of his chest unleashes a string of what Hawke assumes must be curses. Hawke is too sated to do anything but watch, though he does push himself back up on his elbows. Anders seems dedicated to pleasant torture. Fenris writhes and tries to free himself, the sensation too much for him. No one has quite cracked the case as to why it’s so hard (Hawke laughs internally at his own joke) for Fenris to release when he’s receiving, for now it’s best to just fight through the mess of misguided reflexes.

Then, with a sudden spasm of muscles, he lets go.

“Yes, there we go,” coos Anders against his ear. Any other time, he might be punched for his perceived patronization, but the elf unconsciously seems to cling to even this tiny praise.

Eyes as wide as windows, Fenris reflects the lamps above them. They look like stars or magic, a vivid swirl of every color only intensified in the elf’s intense green irises. While his body is stiff and still, the muscles of his abdomen ripple beneath the skin with spending energy. His lips hang open, dragging in gulps of air until he can’t feel anything but bliss.

As his mind returns to his body, he slumps back against Anders’ chest. The mage pokes incessantly at his back, but is more interested in the mess on his fingers. He drags them along the tanned skin of Fenris’ belly. When Fenris groans and makes another feeble attempt to pull away, pale, slick digits press against his lips. He greets them with a tentative lick, then allows them to work their way inside. A little too insistent, they’re quickly reprimanded with a bite.

Hawke tells himself that Fenris’ teeth suit his name. They’re long and crooked in some places, like there are too many teeth for his jaw, giving him more sharp edges than anyone could ever need. All the better for biting Anders’ fingers as they press deeper into the elf’s mouth. His chin is slick with saliva he can’t quite hold in when digits press against his tongue. Hawke thinks the two of them together like this, looking every bit as hot and hostile as they always are, is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s staring until Anders pushes both of their bodies forward so that Fenris’ cum slicked chest is flat against his own and Anders’ lips are on his. The elf is crushed between them, but is too pacified by his own pleasure to fight them off. In fact, Hawke can feel his muscles ripple around him, and then relax when Fenris’ sweat slicked forehead rests against his shoulder. Hot breath fans over his skin and something wet presses against it. Fenris is humming beside them, and Hawke guesses he’s now sucking those long pale fingers from the way Anders is rocking against the elf’s back. Even if he can’t see it, he imagines teeth dragging over flesh, lips nursing digits in time with the roll of Anders’ hips.

Whatever Fenris is doing, it seems to be working. Anders moans low against Hawke. His hips work harder, pushing the elf roughly between them. Fenris snarls and Anders yelps. Perhaps Fenris bit him hard enough to draw blood. If so, then Anders is a bit kinkier than expected. The both of them fumble forward and Anders lets a contented noise spill from low in his throat.

Anders’ teeth click against Hawke’s in that moment, and he narrowly misses doing some damage by letting himself tip sideways onto his back.

They’ve drifted during their romp. Anders’ arm hangs off the side of the bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, instead spreading himself further so he can take advantage of the air chilling around them. Fenris makes no such move, instead lying sated against Hawke’s belly, release cooling on his back. They’re still connected, and that’s not likely to change until one of them has the energy to move again. Hawke drags his fingers through the white mess on Fenris’ skin and turns to grin at an exhausted Anders.

“I know it’s a little early, but what does that Warden stamina of yours say about a second round?”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on my writing Tumblr at [aurenfaiewrites](http://aurenfaiewrites.tumblr.com/), or at my personal Tumblr [here](http://realvsable.tumblr.com/).


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